Our Last Hope
by johnson3051
Summary: Since Harry's death, Ron and Hermione can't trust each other. She blames Ron, and Ron hates her for it, but they are the only ones still fighting the war against Voldemort. When, by chance, they meet Draco Malfoy in the woods, he agrees to help them.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **I think I'm a bit better at writing angst than anything else, and I had this really good idea for a story that I just could not stop thinking about, so, here is the product of my psychosis. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter One <strong>_The End and the Beginning_

I am sitting in a pew in a church that has no walls. There are bricks and mortar and holes where doors and windows used to be, but it is not the glory of a building it once was. Even though I have never seen it before this day, I just know that it used to be beautiful. I can imagine how its tall steepled roof would look, and how sunlight would stream through the large stained glass windows and dye the pale hardwood floors a rainbow of colors.

It seems like a lot of things are like that these days. Barely a shadow of the former glory they once were.

I am like that. I used to be happy and carefree, and I used to love life and revel in the fullness that could be gained from all the things life had to offer, but now I am a ghost. My only goal in life is to make it until tomorrow without being murdered or killed, and even my chances at that are slim.

Voldemort is on the rise again, and this time he won't be stopped. Harry is dead. He was our only hope for a chance at ending this war, and Voldemort slit his throat like he was no more than a pig at slaughter. The only people who are left to fight Voldemort are myself, Ron, and a sorry few that we picked up along the way. Everyone else has fled. No one wants to stand up for what's right anymore, all they want to do is keep out of Voldemort's way and find a way protect themselves and their loved ones. Honestly I don't blame them. I would probably do the same thing in their situation. Unfortunately, I don't have that luxury. I can't stand idly by and watch a terrorist take over the world, while I do nothing to try and stop it Even if it's a hopeless waste of my time left here on earth, and even if it kills me in the end, I _will_ fight for what I believe is right, and I won't stop until my corpse is six feet under or, more likely, lying strewn on a battlefield somewhere with crows pecking out my eyes. This is the path I have chosen, and I will not abandon it.

I slowly get to my feet and brush the stone dust off of my shirt and trousers, and make my way through the rubble to what used to be the door of this beautiful structure. Ron is waiting for me outside. He is sitting on a fallen tree just inside the edge of the forest that surrounds the graveyard beside the church. He looks a little worse for wear, but I'm pretty sure I don't look any better so I'm not really in a position to make judgments.

As I weave through the gravestones and make my way toward him he glances up and his pale sky blue eyes catch mine. It's odd to think that at one time I found those eyes so captivating and full of love, but now I look into them and see nothing but sadness and regret. After Harry died, mine and Ron's relationship ended. I blamed him for Harry's death, and he blamed me for hating him because of it. We will never leave each other though because we are the some of the last few who are still fighting this war. We need each other to survive, but I will never again love him as I once did and he will never love me. After this war is over, if we are still alive, we will likely not even be friends.

Ron stands up as I approach him, and runs his hand back through his hair. Neither of us has had a shower for days, and his hair is so filled with grease and grime that, when he finally lifts his hand way from his head, his hair stays plastered down against his skull.

"You done in there?" he asks me, but without meeting my eyes.

"Yeah. I didn't find anything useful that we could take back to camp. Anything left by the Muggles that deserted this village has long since been pillaged."

Ron sighs and rubs his hands over his eyes. "Damnit, Hermione. If we don't find some supplies soon we are either going to starve or freeze to death. It's starting to get cold out and we don't have a single blanket for warmth, or, even, for that matter clothes that aren't covered in dirt and holes. For Godric's sake, your trousers are about three sizes to short and the knees are so worn I can see your skin."

I'm getting more and more irritated with his accusing tone. It's like he honestly thinks I don't know these things, like I don't know that if we aren't murdered by Death Eaters tonight, we may starve or freeze to death before tomorrow night even comes.

"First of all, Ron, I don't see you helping to find us any supplies. While I'm in there searching through rubble, and tearing my hands to shreds doing it, you're out her sitting, literally, like a bump on a log. So don't preach to me about needing food and blankets and clothes. I know want we need, and I, unlike you, am trying to provide it." I sit down heavily on the fallen tree and try to keep from crying or, worse, passing out. Sometimes I don't think it would be so bad if we were killed by Voldemort and his group of Death Eaters. At least then I wouldn't feel so tired anymore. At least then I wouldn't feel cold and hungry and alone.

Ron sits down beside me and tries to put his arm around my shoulders, but I shrug him off and move further down the tree away from him.

"Listen, Hermione…I'm just really worn out. I didn't mean to yell, I just…I just know we need to stick together if we're going to make it through this, and without food and warmth, we won't make it through the week, let alone long enough to keep fighting this war. We're never going to win, or even make a dent, if we can't work through our own…problems…and, at least, learn to trust and rely on each other again."

I give him a look, but he hurries on before I get a chance to express my anger.

"I don't mean…like we used to be. I just mean as…brothers in arms or something. People who are able to work together, without being at each others throats all the time."

What he says does make sense, and the whole reason we decided not to split ways in the first place is because we each knew we needed at least one other person, and it would be so much easier if I could trust Ron again, if I could unload some of my burden onto him. I just don't know if I can. The last time I put my faith in him, Harry was killed.

I glance over at him and take in the slump of his shoulders and the defeated look in his eyes. I stand up and walk a few feet away and then turn around and walk back.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to trust you like I did before, but…we do need to be able to rely on each other if we are going to keep trying to fight this war. I know we don't stand much of a chance as it is, but I know we stand no chance if we don't start trying to forget the past and start working together, so…I say we stop fighting, and…start trying to find the things we need to live past tomorrow."

Ron nods and smiles at me. I want to slap the smile right off his face, but, honestly, I don't feel as bad as I did a moment ago, and I think if we actually try and work together, we might be able to at least make a dent in Voldemort's forces, even if we can't win this war altogether.

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><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>As always, review and let me know what you think. Criticism and grammer corrections are always welcome.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I know not much happens in this chapter, but this is mostly a chapter to address some of the changes that have happened since Voldemort has taken over. It may be slow to start, but it helps to get some of the explanations out of the way, and it picks up at the end, which is how the rest of the story will progress.

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><p><strong>Chapter Two<strong>

After searching through the rubble and destruction of several broken and crumbling buildings for hours on end, Ron and I finally stumbled upon a small hidden-away shop—possibly an abandoned Muggle drugstore—where we were able gather some few of our much needed supplies. The shop hadn't yet been looted by Death Eaters, or the many refugees of the war, and was relatively well stocked with food and other materials that would be useful. We were able to scavenge some canned goods, matches, a lamp and some lamp oil, several pants and shirts I could resize to fit the various remaining members of the Order, and some blankets that, while old and slightly musty, were thick and warm enough to keep us from freezing on winter nights when the temperature would drop well below freezing.

When we were done gathering our loot and packing it into a duffel bag that was spelled with an undetectable extension charm, Ron and I headed back towards the woods and our long trek to the campsite. We would have just apparated back, but, unfortunately, apparition these days was more dangerous than the treacherous hike through the Pentland Hills Regional Park where we had set up camp. All apparitions that were performed by someone other than Voldemort, his Death Eaters, Ministry of Magic officials, and the people who worked for them, like snatchers and other such rabble, were strictly prohibited, and would bring down a flock of Ministry police on you faster than you could say Destination, Determination, and Deliberation.

So, Ron and I had decided a while back that anywhere we needed to travel could be done on foot, by broomstick, or not at all, but, with magical items so hard to come by, we mostly did the former.

Walking actually wasn't that bad once you got used to it. Pentland Hills did have a mountainous landscape and thick overcrowded forests, but living there had three distinct advantages. One, even though we were camping dangerously close to Hogwarts, which was Voldemort's sanctuary, no one knew we were here, and it made planning and carrying out attacks on his forces that much easier for us. Two, we were a couple days from several small Muggle villages, which we were able to gather supplies from, and, three, the, thick, substantial cover of trees made it the safest place to hide, while still being able to fight.

While walking may have seemed like a burden at first, it was actually a blessing in disguise. It enabled us to watch each other's backs, and, if anyone was following us, we had the option of leading them away from our camp, instead of accidentally side-along apparating them directly into the midst of it, like so many of us had mistakenly done before the law forced us into traveling by foot instead.

But, after a long day of searching through dilapidated buildings and clearing rubble, it hardly seems like much of a blessing.

My back is aching, my head is throbbing, and my arms feel like dead weights swinging by my sides.

I was glad Ron was carrying our bag full of supplies because I'm sure I couldn't manage it on my own.

I roll my arms and neck a few times to ease some of the uncomfortableness in my back and shoulders, but it's hardly a help.

If we had a bathtub back at camp I could sooth my tired muscles with a good soak, but the last time I saw a tub was when I was living at Hogwarts in my sixth year. When we left to search for Horcruxes, Harry, Ron, and I bathed with nothing but a bar of everlasting soap, a moldy old washrag, and a tin bucket full of freezing river water. Although I could just use magic to transfigure our tin bucket into a bathtub, showering out of a bucket is a much faster way to get clean, and, in a war, time is of the essence. There are much more important things that need attending to, and my sore muscles are the lowest on the list of priorities.

Judging by Ron's grimacing face, I'm sure he would love to soak in a warm bath as much as I would. His back is hunched over in what I can only describe as a severely uncomfortable looking manner and he keeps readjusting the strap of the duffel over his shoulder so often that it has rubbed the side of his neck raw. He looks a terrible mess, but, unfortunately, there's not much I can do to help him. This is the life we have to live to survive, and we both have to learn to deal with the physical pains of over exhaustion, just like all the rest that work their hands to the bone everyday for little or no reward.

I really don't want to, but I reach over and grab the bag from Ron's shoulder and try to pull it over onto mine. He grabs my hands to stop me, but for once I actually feel sorry for him and I wrest the bag from him and swing it across my body so he can't take it back as easily as I took it from him. It looks like he's trying his hardest not to complain about his soreness, and I'm sure his shoulder could use a break from the heaviness of the duffel.

I unzip the bag a get out some aloe and hand it to him.

"Here. Put this on your neck. I can carry the bag while you rest up a bit."

He sighs but instead of protesting he just follows my direction and smoothes some of the aloe over the rash on his neck.

When the sun starts to set, we follow it, and head west. As the sky gets darker with the sun slipping lower and lower in the sky, my hearing becomes over sensitized to compensate for my loss of sight. I begin to notice that my own, and Ron's, footsteps are not the only ones I'm hearing. It's extremely faint; whoever is following us is trying to mimic our footfalls, but I can hear a soft echo of sound after every other step that Ron and I take, and it's not our own footfalls bouncing back to my ears from the trees. This sound is coming from further back, not from my sides.

I draw my wand slowly from my pocket and as covertly as I possibly can I reach over and wrap my hand around Ron's wrist to get his attention. He looks up at me questioningly and, once I have his gaze, I tip my head back slightly to indicate that I think someone is following us. Ron follows my lead and slips his wand out of his pocket, preparing for a fight. Our follower could just be a Muggle straggler that is passing through, or even maybe an animal of some sort, but…something tells me that it's not. No Muggle refugee or wild animal would take so much care to hide their footsteps unless they meant us bodily harm.

I squeeze Ron's wrist again and signal to my right were there is a large oak tree surrounded by several waist high bushes. He glances over at the small copse and nods. Without breaking our strides we angle towards the trees. As soon as we are out of sight behind the large oak, I cast nonverbal disillusionment charms on both of us. I can't see Ron any longer but I still have hold of his wrist, and I've got my wand held at the ready in my right hand. Whoever is pursuing us, if they follow us into this thicket of trees, is in for a hell of a surprise.

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><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Review! Let me know of any errors I may have missed, and, again, sorry about the slow take off.


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